ALL YOU WANT TO DO IS DANCE OUT OF YOUR SKIN
INTO ANOTHER SONG NOT QUITE ABOUT HEROES,
BUT STILL A SONG WHERE YOU CAN LIFT THE SPEAR
AND SAY "YES" AS IT FLASHES."
INTO ANOTHER SONG NOT QUITE ABOUT HEROES,
BUT STILL A SONG WHERE YOU CAN LIFT THE SPEAR
AND SAY "YES" AS IT FLASHES."
She looks at him like he would look at himself: a
blur of confusion cut through by veins of black fear. She looks at him like he is a beast, a thing in the body of a horse that is not a horse, made of teeth and thunder and bottomless rage and nothing else.
Sometimes Andras thinks they aren't wrong. What's so impossible about sizzling with bile? What's the rush in breathing deep, closing your eyes? Often, he feels more like a storm than a pegasus, or a Warden, or whatever he has been in this or any other life. Oriens chuckles down at him.
Oriens is smiling when he turns to her, shakes the snow off his wings, and huffs so that a cloud of steam rises from his nostrils in plumes. Maybe instead of a horse he will be a dragon. Maybe instead of a dragon he will be something new, terrible. The woods certainly would not care.
Apologies, sir-- I have been traveling a long while and was simply looking forward to a beautiful sunrise. Andras stares at her for a moment, thinking. She doesn't seem dangerous. She doesn't seem like much of anything. He huffs again, but it sounds more like a sigh, drawn out on the ice crystals that cling to the rims of his glasses.
When he turns back to her sunrise, She need not fear, him, not really.
For all his rage and his pounding fists, he cannot quite will himself to attack someone being perfectly kind. Andras bites his tongue, screws his nerves to a point, deep down, and says, "No, you've done nothing wrong. Welcome to Delumine."
He must seem almost disappointed, perhaps that there are no arms to be drawn. He must seem like he's dying for a row.
Truly, as Andras carefully avoids meeting her eyes again, following Torielle through the trees, he thinks: should she fear me? Am I to be feared? with a sick feeling that tastes like his anger but a little too sharp. "Torielle, then." He sighs, again. "Can I watch your sunrise?"
blur of confusion cut through by veins of black fear. She looks at him like he is a beast, a thing in the body of a horse that is not a horse, made of teeth and thunder and bottomless rage and nothing else.
Sometimes Andras thinks they aren't wrong. What's so impossible about sizzling with bile? What's the rush in breathing deep, closing your eyes? Often, he feels more like a storm than a pegasus, or a Warden, or whatever he has been in this or any other life. Oriens chuckles down at him.
Oriens is smiling when he turns to her, shakes the snow off his wings, and huffs so that a cloud of steam rises from his nostrils in plumes. Maybe instead of a horse he will be a dragon. Maybe instead of a dragon he will be something new, terrible. The woods certainly would not care.
Apologies, sir-- I have been traveling a long while and was simply looking forward to a beautiful sunrise. Andras stares at her for a moment, thinking. She doesn't seem dangerous. She doesn't seem like much of anything. He huffs again, but it sounds more like a sigh, drawn out on the ice crystals that cling to the rims of his glasses.
When he turns back to her sunrise, She need not fear, him, not really.
For all his rage and his pounding fists, he cannot quite will himself to attack someone being perfectly kind. Andras bites his tongue, screws his nerves to a point, deep down, and says, "No, you've done nothing wrong. Welcome to Delumine."
He must seem almost disappointed, perhaps that there are no arms to be drawn. He must seem like he's dying for a row.
Truly, as Andras carefully avoids meeting her eyes again, following Torielle through the trees, he thinks: should she fear me? Am I to be feared? with a sick feeling that tastes like his anger but a little too sharp. "Torielle, then." He sighs, again. "Can I watch your sunrise?"
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
